


The Adventure Of The Canary-Trainer

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [73]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Birds, Disguise, Drugs, F/M, Fear, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A familial murderer reckons without Holmes, and finds not only his schemes but his whole criminal empire comes crashing down – because of a canary!





	The Adventure Of The Canary-Trainer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brunheiffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brunheiffer/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

London. The great metropolis (or as Kean calls it, the great mess!). Almost anything is available for a price as he, I and our boys well know. And where there is money there is inevitably crime. In this case my brother Sherlock solved a murder and inadvertently uncovered a drugs ring so it was a double achievement for him, or for his police friends whom he allowed to claim the credit. 

This case happened towards the end of 'Ninety-Five, about a month after the adventure written up as _Black Peter_.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

It was a rare pleasant day in London Town, when even the seemingly permanent city fog seemed to be taking a holiday. I came in looking forward to one of Mrs. Hudson's wonderful dinners only to find Holmes frowning over a letter.

“A Mr. Emlyn Wilson from Essex called when you were out”, he said, “and would like me to investigate preternatural happenings in his home.”

“You investigate the occult?” I asked, surprised. We had had elements of that sort of thing in the odd case here and there, but all too often it had turned out to have a human element at its source. Except possibly in that Suffolk case concerning the ancient British barrow.

“I suspect that the cause is of this world in its origin”, Holmes said, “otherwise I would not be interested. But the case has several intriguing aspects to it, and I think as a writer it might appeal to your good self.”

I blushed. 

“Pray tell me about it”, I said.

He sat back in his chair and pressed his long fingers together. 

“Mr. Emlyn Wilson owns Beaumont Priory, a large property in Poplar close to the River Thames”, he said. “The East End is not the sort of place one normally associated with such buildings, but this was built on the site of an old monastery called Beaumont, a sub-house to the great abbey at Waltham which was one of the last to fall under Henry the Eighth's axe in the year fifteen hundred and forty.”

I smiled as the warmth from the fire seeping into my bones. There was a lot to be said for solid walls, a warm fire and the prospect of a delicious dinner.

“The abbey, like so many others, was sold to the Wriothesley family and eventually a private house was built on the site using many of the stones from the old building. All that remained of the abbey was a cloister and a small chapel, onto which the new building was constructed. The chapel continued in use for the house's new owners.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, belatedly remembering. “Wriothesley. Was not he connected with Shakespeare in some way?”

Holmes smiled at my enthusiasm.

“The family, like many at the time, split over religion”, he explained. “Mr. Wilson's ancestors came from a Protestant branch and were merely cousins of the Earl of Southampton to whom certain of our greatest writer's sonnets were dedicated. That was probably just as well given how matters developed; as you know that particular nobleman's involvement in the Essex Plot nearly brought his family down with him. I believe Mr. Wilson's ancestor, foreseeing the disaster, was wise enough to present the Queen with a beautiful new dress shortly before the plot was uncovered. He knew his mark; certain it was that his side of the family escaped unscathed.”

“So why does the descendant of an Elizabethan nobleman need the services of London's greatest detective?” I asked lightly.

Holmes looked at me in amusement. I silently cursed myself, wondering when had I taken to putting my foot into my mouth like that. Fortunately he refrained from adding to my discomfort and continued with his story.

“The last of the Wriothesley's was Mr. Wilson's grandmother Alice, who married a London businessman called Jeremiah Wilson”, he said. “Their eldest son, who most unhappily was called Wilson....”

“Wait a minute”, I said. “Wilson _Wilson?”_

Holmes nodded. I shook my head at the cruelty of some parents.

“That gentleman, Mr. Emlyn Wilson's father, married three times”, he said. “The first marriage ended when his wife died of an illness after but three months, and he married Mr. Wilson's mother Agnes, who was of Welsh extraction. She was very proud of her heritage, and it was on her instruction that her firstborn was called Emlyn – our Mr. Wilson - after a friend of hers. Sadly she then died giving birth to a daughter who also passed; this is a cause of some contention in the family to this day as Mr. Wilson Wilson waited less than a month before marrying a French lady called Mademoiselle Theresa Déjun, their having a son Emil and three daughters. The elder Mr. Wilson died in France last year.”

“About three weeks ago Mr. Emlyn Wilson, who lives alone, was about to turn in for the night when he heard the sound of a bell outside. Upon attaining the window, he observed a figure in red moving from the house to the chapel, into which it disappeared. He immediately came down and with his butler's assistance made his way to the chapel, only to find it locked and apparently undisturbed.”

A figure in red?” I asked dubiously.

“Beaumont Priory was home to the Scarlet Friars, an order much favoured by the Pope”, Holmes explained. “Beaumont was their only foothold in England, apparently.”

“I did not think that you believed in ghosts”, I observed. Holmes smiled.

“The Beaumont estate is a valuable one, and since he is now past forty Mr. Emlyn Wilson has been looking to its succession”, he said. “Because of the rift over his father's overly swift remarriage to his stepmother – who is still alive but with whom he has no communication except to pay her an allowance as his father's will stated – he dislikes his half-brother Emil intensely. He has as a result adopted as his heir a distant cousin, one Master Laban Farnsworth, although the boy plans to change his surname to that of his adoptive father when he is twenty-one. He is sixteen years old, so cannot inherit as of right for another five years, and Mr. Emlyn is concerned that either his brother or agents acting for him will try to scare him into an early grave, so that they could manage and quite possibly strip the estate in the interim. Our client does have a weak heart.”

Once again I felt an irrational pleasure at his use of 'our' rather than 'my'. 

“I do not see what he expects you to do about it”, I said.

“I would conjecture that he hopes I can find some evidence of his half-brother's perfidy so that the latter can be persuaded to cease his activities”, Holmes said. “We would probably have to spend a couple of days there if you have no objection.”

I smiled.

“I would be delighted”, I said.

“Good”, he said with the hint of a smile. “Doubtless it will be a most challenging case – even for 'London's greatest detective'!”

Sadly there was nothing to throw at him save a scowl.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day we departed from a Fenchurch Street Station in a city still wreathed in the seemingly endless fog, which felt the need to follow us the length of our journey on a surprisingly smart little Great Eastern Railway train for the short journey to Beaumont Road Halt where, with some effort, we procured a cab to take us the three-quarters of a mile to the Priory. We passed through the tiny hamlet of Beaumont, which was little more than two rows of cottages on a hill overlooking a Thames I could not see but could definitely (and unfortunately) smell. 

On our arrival at the Priory we found the place all a-bustle. An officious-looking police constable came out of the front door to wave us away.

“We don't need no more sightseers!” he snapped. 

“Mr. Emlyn Wilson was expecting us”, Holmes replied crisply. “Is there a problem, officer?”

The constable eyed my friend up and down.

“Housekeeper said he was expecting some toff from the smoke”, he said rudely. “I suppose you can.....”

“Constable!”

I looked up, relieved to see the familiar bulk of Inspector Gregson. The constable looked put out at his arrival, but said nothing.

“Come in, gentlemen”, Gregson said, ushering us through the door. “Garrett Pelham is in charge of the case as this is his patch – you met him that time in Balckwall, Mr. Holmes - but the victim asked me here presumably for much the same reason he called you in.”

“Victim?” I asked.

“Mr. Emlyn Wilson was found dead by his maid at nine o'clock this morning”, Gregson said gravely.

I was stunned.

“Why he would employ a police inspector from a central London station when he had his own constabulary to hand?” Holmes asked as we entered. Gregson grinned.

“He came to our station before he called at your place”, he said. “He wanted to check you out, and see if you were all he had read about.”

“How did Mr. Emlyn Wilson die?” Holmes asked, as we entered the lounge and sat down. A butler handed Gregson a coffee and quietly whispered to him that he would fetch two more for us. The inspector waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Heart-attack”, he said. _“Allegedly.”_

“You believe otherwise”, Holmes said.

“He had a heart condition”, Gregson said, “I know that, but there's something about the case that seems fishy. That, and I really can't _stand_ his git of a brother!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I had thought Gregson a bit harsh in his assessment of Mr. Emil Wilson, but after only a few minutes with the man, I revised that assessment to 'undeservedly generous'. The younger Mr. Wilson was an unctuous little man, a bald-headed oik just oozing fake sympathy for a relative whose estate he would be responsible for during the next five years. I felt certain that he would take full advantage of that fact, and found myself hoping that he was indeed guilty.

“So sad”, he said, wrapping his hands around each other. “Poor, dear Emlyn. But then, he always did have a weak heart.”

Holmes nodded sympathetically.

“Mr. Wilson here owns that rare birds shop by Liverpool Street Station”, Gregson said. 

“My brother did not really approve of my being in trade, I am afraid”, Mr. Wilson smiled. “Although he did have one of my canaries which of course I provided free of charge.”

We were I presumed meant to be impressed by such munificence. Holmes however did seem to find that interesting.

“Is the bird still here?” he asked.

“Yes”, Mr. Wilson said, clearly surprised at his avian interest. “Quite unharmed; Emlyn was always good at caring for any living soul.” 

“Did he talk to you about the apparition?” Holmes asked.

“I am afraid that I do not really believe in ghosts”, Mr. Wilson said, smiling. “And for all his fine qualities my brother always did have an over-active imagination.”

“Quite”, Holmes said, standing up. “I am sure that Inspector Gregson will do everything in his power to bring the investigation to a swift conclusion for you. It is unfortunate however that your late brother chose this particular weekend to call on my services.”

“And what services might those be?” Mr. Wilson inquired, squinting at him over his circular spectacles.

“I am a consulting detective, sir.”

I did not imagine it. The man definitely flinched.

“It is just that your brother promised to put us up for one night”, Holmes said, “and it fitted in perfectly in that our landlady is having minor repair work done to our rooms. I had promised her we would not return until late Sunday evening.....”

“Think nothing of it”, Mr. Wilson declared. “Of course I shall be delighted to put you up for tonight. It is the least I can do to honour dear Emlyn's memory.”

Holmes bowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I did not know there was renovation work being done on our rooms this weekend”, I said later, when we were walking out into the garden.

“There is not”, Holmes said shortly. “But I wanted to look further into this case. Gregson may have his failings but he has good instincts. If he suspects foul play then it is most definitely worth investigating.”

We entered the cloister, and walked to the door of the Chapel. When we reached the door Holmes drew out a huge old key, but did not immediately open it. Instead, he ran his hands up the hinges of the door.

“Interesting”, he muttered.

“What?” I asked. He unlocked the door.

“What do you hear?” he asked as he pushed it open.

I listened carefully but could hear nothing. I said so. Holmes shook his head.

“Sometimes there is something in nothing”, he said cryptically. “This, by the way, is one of only three keys to Chapel, and was always kept in the bedside table of the late Mr. Emlyn Wilson. The second is kept by his lawyer, and the third was in the possession of his would-be heir, away at school.”

“So no-one else could have entered the chapel”, I reasoned.

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully then ushered me back outside. He gestured to a small side-door next to the chapel door.

“That is the only other way out”, he said. “A small room used by the chapel's own priest in times past. It is currently occupied by the groundsman whilst his own house undergoes repairs.”

“Did he hear or see anything?” I asked.

“No”, Holmes said. “He was woken up when Mr. Emlyn Wilson came down to investigate but could not help. His room does have a window but as he sleeps almost right next to the door no-one could have left the cloister that way without waking him.”

I did not see where Holmes was going with this but at that moment a cab pulled up outside the main door and disgorged a small figure, barely visible through the light mist. The constable on duty put an arm around him and led him inside.

“That must be young Master Laban Farnsworth”, I said. “Gregson said he was going to summon the lad back from his school. He does not look much of an lordling to me.”

“A fine homecoming”, Holmes observed. “I should like to speak with the housekeeper, alone if that is all right. Could you take a walk and meet me back here in an hour? You might find a shop to buy some toiletries, to make our stay here a little more comfortable.”

I was surprised (and not a little peeved) at being dismissed in this way, but I supposed that he must have had his reasons. I nodded, and walked off into the mist.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Was your talk with the housekeeper informative?” I asked him in his room later, as I waited for him to change for dinner.

“I spoke to Gregson first, and asked him if Mr. Emil Wilson had left the house at all since his arrival”, he said, fiddling with a cuff-link. “He had not, which I was relieved about. I then visited the chapel again, and finally one other place of interest. Look in the drawer by the fire and see what I found!” 

I did and found a single red satin glove. It took me far too long to grasp the significance of it.

“You found the priest's clothes!” I exclaimed.

“That is all that remains of them”, he said. 

“But how did you know where to look?” I asked. He finished dressing, and turned to smile at me.

“I found it in the one place where I knew to look for it”, he said with a smile, before starting for the stairs.

I hated it when he did that!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Dinner was a tense affair with Mr. Emil Wilson clearly on poor terms with his new charge. I supposed it had to be difficult especially for the boy; all that money, but he had to yield control over it to a relative he clearly disliked. I was glad when it was over, and we could retire to our rooms.

Gregson reappeared the following morning only to vanish again after a swift conversation with Holmes. When we met in the cloister soon afterwards I asked him what was afoot.

“Twelve inches”, he said, looking puzzled. I resisted the urge to hit him.

“I mean, have there been any developments?” I managed through gritted teeth.

That was when I saw the gleam in his eyes. The bastard was playing with me, damnation!

“I fully expect to provide you with a murderer by this evening.”

“I thought you said that you knew who it was?” I said.

“My knowing and my being able to prove are two different things”, he said. “But if all goes to plan, dinner should be quite interesting.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Gregson arrived back at just after four o'clock, and I hoped from the copious amount of papers he brought with him that his quest had been successful. He and the local inspector both sat down to dinner with us, and Holmes mentioned that he and I would be departing on the evening train directly afterwards.

“We shall miss you”, Mr. Emil Wilson said with obvious insincerity. “Won't we, Laban?”

The teenager huffed. I smiled to myself. 

“It has been a fascinating case”, Holmes said, helping himself to potatoes. “I understand that modern crime fiction novels are fond of murder disguised as a heart-attack, but in this instance there was a further complication. Poor Mr. Emlyn Wilson was poisoned through a most ingenious means, one I have never seen before.”

You could have heard a pin drop. We all stared at him.

“Poison?” Mr. Emil Wilson said at last.

“Do not look so surprised, sir”, Holmes chided. “You poisoned him.”

I thought for a moment that the man was going to follow his brother out of this world by giving up the ghost. 

“That”, he sniffed at last, “is a scurrilous and baseless accusation.”

“Hardly baseless, as I can prove it”, Holmes said dryly. “And certainly not scurrilous, as it is true.” He put down the potato bowl and looked around the table. “Pass me the salt please, Nathan.”

“All right”, the teenager said and handed it over.

Holmes grinned and I could see Mr. Emil Wilson putting his head in his hands. Far too late the boy realized his error.

“Who is Nathan?” he said quickly. Holmes turned to the two inspectors. 

“Gentlemen”, he intoned, “allow me to present Mr. Nathaniel Wilson, second son to the gentleman at the far end of this table.”

The boy looked panicked and stared at his father.

“You fool!” Mr. Emil Wilson ground out. “You bloody fool!”

“It was well-planned”, Holmes explained. “When it became clear that Mr. Emlyn Wilson was looking for a possible heir, his brother first offered his own eldest son, knowing because of the rift between them that that such an offer would be refused, then did some in-depth 'research' to discover a distant cousin whose parents had died and was in danger of being dispatched to the workhouse in Southend. The two brothers rarely met, so the victim could not know what the younger son looked like. Master Laban Farnsworth, alias Master Nathaniel Wilson, duly settled in well to the life of an heir to a great estate and would in time have perhaps made a good job of it.”

“Except that his father was not minded to wait. Knowing that if the boy inherited under-age then he himself would get control of the estate – and I am sure it would have been well milked if not all but destroyed in those short years – he arranges for the visions of a man crossing the cloisters to the old chapel, the 'ghost' of a Scarlet Friar.”

“How did the 'ghost' disappear?” I asked. 

Holmes turned to me.

“You will remember, Watson, that when I pushed open the chapel door I asked you what you heard?”

“But I did not hear anything!” I objected.

“Exactly”, he said, The door was used once a month for services, yet it did not creak at all. It had been oiled so that it would open silently. You will also remember that the groundsman's room was directly next to that door. Any loud noise would have risked waking him.”

Holmes stared icily at Mr. Emil Wilson and his son, who had edged round to table to be close to his murderous father. I would personally have headed in exactly the opposite direction.

“On the night of the murder, you made sure that one of the maids took a message to the groundsman”, Holmes said calmly. “You waited outside the door, then appeared behind her in your costume just as she was leaving. She most obligingly fainted and you had time to go through the chapel door and lock it with your son's key. You then slipped out of the back of the chapel and emerged from 'a walk'. Having calmed the maid and reported the matter to your brother, you returned to the Chapel, retrieved your costume, and went to your room. Where you made your sole mistake.”

He produced the single red glove with a flourish.

“You returned to your room and doubtless prepared to destroy the costume”, Holmes said. “However, someone came to the room unexpectedly and you had to hastily shove the whole thing into the chest that stands at the foot of the bed. Once they had gone you retrieved it and burnt it – but by the workings of Providence one of the red gloves remained in the chest undetected. I think that you will find it hard to explain how a Scarlet Friar's costume glove came to be in your room.”

I noticed that Gregson had surreptitiously moved to block the door.

“How did he kill his brother?” Inspector Pelham asked.

“That was where he used his business”, Holmes said. “Knowing that his brother fed the bird himself, he visited on the pretence of a check-up and, whilst he was alone in the room, coated the cage door with a deadly and fast-acting poison. The housekeeper told me that Mr. Emlyn Wilson always looked in on the bird before he went to bed of an evening. He made it to his bedroom and collapsed, and his brother was able to make it look as if he had died of a heart-attack brought on by shock.”

“But why did the doctor they called not spot that?” I could not help but object.

“Because he was not looking for it”, Holmes explained. “He was not taken to a body and asked, 'how did this man die?'. He was shown Mr. Emlyn's body and asked 'did this man die of a heart-attack?' Knowing the patient had a weak heart he would have concurred. But”... and his eyes lit up triumphantly, “he did say one damning thing in his report.”

“What?” I asked.

“The victim had strange markings around his wrists”, Holmes said, looking meaningfully at Emil Wilson.”

“A jury won't hang me on that!” the man sneered. 

Holmes suddenly turned on Nathaniel Wilson who quailed before him.

“Gregson, Pelham”, he said silkily. “I think you should take young Master Wilson in for questioning. And perhaps point out to him what happens to convicted criminals of his tender age in our modern gaols. Make sure you give him _every_ little detail.”

The two inspectors moved to stand either side of the boy, who looked up in alarm, clearly terrified.

“Father?” he quavered.

“Come with us sonny”, Pelham smiled nastily. “It's going to be a long, long night for the likes of you!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

There turned out to be rather more to this matter than had emerged in the Priory. Nathaniel Wilson confessed all and tried to lay the blame fully on his father for his uncle's murder. The boy was sentenced to twelve years in jail at the end of which time he immediately left the country for parts unknown. His father pleaded innocent and may have got off due to the weak case against him, but a visit by police to his shop uncovered the fact that he had been using the import of his birds to smuggle in drugs in the bases of his cages. I have a strong suspicion that the uncovering of this made him realize that he was a marked man even if he did wriggle free, and he admitted to the murder of his brother whereon he paid the appropriate price. 

Ryland Wilson, a real distant cousin, inherited Beaumont Priory as a result but sold it on immediately rather than live there and the house passed to new owners, I know not whom. It was later sold again and knocked down for a housing development just after the turn of the century.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
